


when skies are grey

by socially_inept



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Prison, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Prison Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide, Underage Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-10-29 04:51:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10846839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socially_inept/pseuds/socially_inept
Summary: you are my sunshine, my only sunshineplease don’t take my sunshine away~Soonyoung was- well, admittedlyrightabout this one thing.  When Minghao looked at Hansol, he didn’t see the monsters that he’d spent his whole life fearing.He saw a gentle boy with careful hands and curved lips and more than enough love to give.  He wondered, momentarily, how someone so docile could have ended up in a place like this.He resolved not to ask.





	1. seungcheol

**Author's Note:**

> PREFACE
> 
>  
> 
>  **DISCLAIMERS**  
>  -I’ve never been to prison  
> -I don’t watch prison break  
> -seventeen aren’t criminals  
> -this is in no way an accurate representation of the setting or the people mentioned  
> -really the only thing in common between my writing and seventeen are names; pure fiction  
> -unbeta'd, so I'm sorry for any mistakes I missed while proof reading
> 
>  **WARNINGS**  
>  -graphic violence  
> -unhealthy relationships  
> -abuse  
> -rape  
> -suicide  
> -major character death  
> -kidnapping and reference to stockholm syndrome  
> -underage sex  
> -mental disorders  
>  **please please please do not read this if you think that any of this could be triggering to you! the warnings are in place for a reason**
> 
> **CHARACTERS**
> 
>  _s.coups_  
>  -literal mafia boss  
> -really bad guy  
> -life sentence  
> -prison gang leader
> 
>  _jeonghan_  
>  -jewel thief  
> -seven years  
> -sleeping with s.coups
> 
>  _jisoo_  
>  -prison psychiatrist  
> -nice guy  
> -just wants to help  
> -dr hong
> 
>  _junhui_  
>  -prison guard  
> -soft hearted  
> -takes no shit
> 
>  _soonyoung_  
>  -defense attorney for hansol and minghao  
> -not great at his job  
> -trying™
> 
>  _wonwoo_  
>  -deserves better  
> -life sentence  
> -was framed  
> -suffers a lot
> 
>  _woozi_  
>  -aggressive™  
> -aggravated assault with a deadly weapon  
> -five years  
> -one smart cookie
> 
>  _dk_  
>  -robbery with company (seungkwan)  
> -three years  
> -a genuinely good person  
> -did someone say tragic backstory
> 
>  _mingyu_  
>  -literally awful  
> -abusive  
> -makes wonwoo suffer  
> -life sentence  
> -the antagonist™
> 
>   _seungkwan_  
>  -robbery with company (dk)  
> -three years  
> -relies heavily on woozi  
> -fake optimism
> 
> _dino_  
>  -genius  
> -hacking and some other crazy shit  
> -five years  
> -physically harmless
> 
> _minghao_  
>  -possession of an illegal firearm  
> -eighteen months  
> -plot centric
> 
> _hansol_  
>  -a lot  
> -life sentence  
> -ohgodbackstory  
> -plot centric  
> -serious issues with s.coups  
> -the one who dies
> 
>   **OTHER INFORMATION**  
>  -chapters are in three parts (i, ii & iii)  
> -i | after hansol’s death  
> -ii | stories of other characters and various expositional scenes (can be skipped over, contains most explicit content)  
> -iii | events leading up to hansol’s death  
> -updates may be slow because I update as I write  
> -there will be thirteen chapters  
> -PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO THE WARNINGS
> 
>    
> that's all, though that was way too long  
> enjoy the first chapter!  
> -dan xx

**i.**

“I’m very sorry, Seungcheol, but while you were in isolation, Hansol passed away.”

Seungcheol hated grey.

Everything in this _fucking_ place was the same dull grey. The same, dreary, dry, middle-ground grey. It was a morally ambiguous colour, not quite saint-like white but not even close to the dark associated with criminals. Everything was grey - the walls, the bars, the yard, the tables, the tiling in the shower. Even the goddamn sky, as if it had been done on purpose.

“Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol hated grey, but he sat still nonetheless, hands folded on the particularly grey table in front of him. He was itching to get out, but he didn’t move. He hadn’t seen his boys in three months, but what was another hour or so?

The psychiatrist’s tie was a lighter shade of grey, with thin black stripes in diagonal lines. There was a clasp on it, to keep the two ends together, and it was silver, which wasn’t much better than the grey. It caught the light at a strange angle, the reflection probably hitting the wall somewhere behind him, and it was so simple and yet so infuriating.

“Seungcheol?”

Seungcheol’s gaze fixed on the shadow of his hand on the table, making it a slightly darker grey. He fucking hated it. When he thought about escaping, fantasy though it was, he thought about colour. The violet in the sky and the pink tinge to Hansol’s cheeks in the cold. The obnoxious orange of streetlamps and the natural green of the inhuman number of houseplants that they had kept. The baby blue of their bedsheets, the pale red of the blankets on the sofa, even the too-bright yellow of the keyring that Hansol had made him a long time ago.

“ _Seungcheol_.”

Seungcheol raised his head slowly, like a child reluctant to meet his father’s eye. It couldn’t be right, he thought. It wasn’t _possible_. He told himself that it was another of Hong’s mind games, another test of his reactions, but he didn’t believe it enough to cancel out the aching feeling of loss in his whole body.

Surely, _surely_ , Hong was mistaken. Seungcheol would know if Hansol died, he would feel it the moment that it happened. Wouldn’t he?

He told himself that Hong was lying, even when the menace in his ear whispered that the man had no reason to lie. He said it over and over again in his mind, and in the span of not even a minute he must have thought it a thousand times. _You’re lying._

“You’re lying,” he said out loud, eventually, and the doctor sucked in a sharp breath.

“Seungcheol, I’m very-”

“You’re _lying_.” His voice cracked as he spoke, his tone more desperate than it was authoritative, and for the first time in ten years he felt out of control.

Doctor Joshua Hong was an attractive man, and Seungcheol found himself hyper-focussed on his facial features. The shape of his eyes, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips. Even the tiny amount of stubble, suggesting that the man had forgotten to shave. There were circles under his eyes, dark and prominent, that more than suggested that shaving wasn’t the only thing that he was too distracted to think about.

His pretty face was ruined, though, by the expression painted onto it. He looked like a tragic actor, mask beautiful but so horrific, and Seungcheol was in the audience, pretending that he didn’t notice anything but the chorus.

“Show me,” he heard someone say, and realised a moment later with a sense of alarm that _he_ had said it.

He didn’t want to see, but he had already asked. He knew what the doctor would show him; an image of a cold body that Seungcheol wanted to believe was still warm-blooded. The man had shown him many images from his file, pictures of his victims - the lucky ones, who had still been recognisable as his work when his men were done with them - and it all felt so disgustingly similar.

Hansol wasn’t a _victim_. He had confessed falsely, but willingly - and while infuriated by it, Seungcheol had found his loyalty endearing. He was spirited and loving, Seungcheol’s sun and moon, and Seungcheol had never done anything to hurt him.

Hansol was not a victim.

But he was, because no one could ever hurt Hansol unless they intended to hurt Seungcheol through him. The boy was a victim of his own identity, his own place in the world, and Seungcheol felt ill thinking that someone had killed the bright-eyed, wide-grinned, soft-spoken boy because of _him_.

“Are you sure that you want to see?” the psychiatrist said mildly. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

And Seungcheol _didn’t_ want to, but if he had been the indirect cause of Hansol’s death, the least that he could do was look at the boy’s body for a moment.

“Show me,” he repeated, more insistent, more desperate, and the doctor relented.

There would have to be a funeral, Seungcheol thought. It would be everything that the boy could have ever wanted. It would be in a church, and Seungcheol would use half of his bank account on the most intricate and inessential coffin. It would be white - Hansol would be dressed in white, too. Not criminal black, and not prison-sky grey.

Doctor Hong’s bony hands slid the photograph across the table, until it sat right under his nose. Seungcheol stared at it in disbelief, then in horror, and then in anger.

It was, plainly and simply, a picture of a corpse. _Hansol’s_ corpse. It was only his face, but it was easy to tell; he looked ill, his skin tinted with lifeless grey. Seungcheol had never hated grey as much as he did staring at the image, and he had never been squeamish about blood or bones or bodies, but he felt bile rising in his throat just looking at it.

The boy’s face was expressionless, but not in the way that it was when he slept. His hair was swept back, his mouth closed, his lips looked stained blue and his eyes must have been shut for him.

It sickened Seungcheol to the core, thinking that someone had pushed his eyes closed and he hadn’t been the one to do it, the one to hold the boy in his arms and give him some comfort even in his last moments.

It was abruptly that Seungcheol got the burning fury, not at Hansol’s death, but at whoever had robbed him of the opportunity to make his death dignified, worth something.

It wasn’t even a question of _who_ , because there was only one other person in a prison for hippies and druggies and harmless kids who could be capable of hurting someone like Hansol.

Kim _fucking_ Mingyu.

For the first time in a long time, Seungcheol stopped seeing grey, and only saw red.

It only took seconds for everything to happen, for every thought to race through his head and every instinct to rush out, but it felt like hours. He was on his feet before Hong could even say anything, and out of the room before the man could react.

Seungcheol had been a powerful man, before this. Some men dropped to their _knees_ before him, heads bowed in respect. Almost everyone here was afraid of him, but Kim Mingyu was too much like him to bow down to him. He was a different kind of monster, the kind that had been born that way, with something wrong in the head, and it made him dangerous - more dangerous than even Seungcheol, in some ways.

He didn’t think much in depth about what he was doing until he was in the recreation room, walking intently with long strides and burning blood towards the giant of a man. His skin was alight: almost like the way that it felt when he was overridden with passion, only more intense.

Jeonghan saw him, and flung himself into his arms. Seungcheol didn’t stop to consider any action other than throwing the man to the ground and continuing on his way to Mingyu.

In all honesty, the man wasn’t too much taller than Seungcheol himself was; but he was a beast nonetheless, twisted and roaring and violent, and with a nauseating bloodlust that made him kill for fun, rather than business.

He stood up from his seat, either to greet Seungcheol or mock him, but whatever he had planned on saying was lost as the elder’s fist met his mouth.

Wonwoo whimpered from where he stood behind Mingyu, though the man himself offered no immediate reaction, stunned for a moment.

Then he hit back.

Seungcheol was ready for it, the weighted blow to his jaw, and he didn’t hesitate in hitting back again, and again.

Mingyu was a monster, but he played with knives and shiny things, not knuckles and bones. He toppled like a tower, sometime between Jeonghan’s screaming and the addition of the security guards’ voices. The taller they stand, the harder they fall, Seungcheol thought with triumph, but didn’t stop.

One hand fisted in Mingyu’s collar, he kept hitting, until the red that he saw was the man’s blood, rather than his own anger.

And the bastard bled, teeth stained red as Seungcheol kept at it, even when hands pried at his arms. He had let Wen Junhui drag him away the first time, he had let Mingyu get _away_ with what he had done to Hansol.

This time, he wouldn’t be so easily forgiven.

“You fucking _killed_ him!” he heard himself shout, in the blur of action.

Mingyu only spat at him.

The taller man had stopped fighting back, already lying limp but still breathing by the time they were separated, bleeding from the mouth and nose, and Seungcheol was panting heavily, knuckles bruised, pride bloated, and everything else just as painful as it had been before.

He strained again Wen’s grasp, attempting to lunge when Mingyu came to, and was helped to stand up.

“I could kill you for fucking _looking_ at him!”

Mingyu laughed. It was harrowing, malicious, the kind of laugh that movie villains had when the story turned out to not be a fairytale.

“He killed _himself_.”

The worst thing, Seungcheol thought, in a fraction of a second, was that it wasn’t even impossible.

“Bullshit!” he screamed anyway, trying again to launch towards him.

There was nothing insincere about the way that he said it, though. Mingyu would have admitted it, free and clear, if he had done it.

Hansol had killed _himself_.

Seungcheol had always been volatile, subject to a mood change at the slightest provocation, but this was something else entirely. It was like a pin had dropped, and the fight melted out of him faster than he anticipated. They were only a few words, but they were so vital, so unspeakably awful, that he let himself go still in Wen’s arms, let himself show his weakness for the crowd that the fight had gathered. He buried his face against the guard’s chest, and choked out a sob.

“He was innocent,” he whispered, because it was true.

Hansol had suffered so much here. He could have had a life. He could have gone to the best university in Korea - fuck Korea, the _world_. He could have studied what he wanted, never had to work a day, stayed with everything that Seungcheol still owned and been safe and content.

But he hadn’t, and now Seungcheol’s boy - his beautiful, gentle, delicate boy - lay dead and grey in a medical tray in someone’s workplace, ruined and abused and just as harmless as he had ever been.

His words were barely audible, but Wen must have heard them, because he placed a discreet but gentle hand on Seungcheol’s back.

“I know,” he responded, voice low.

Seungcheol’s body sagged, and he allowed the guard to take him away from Mingyu and Wonwoo and all the others who _hadn’t saved him_.

 

 

**ii.**

A man like Choi Seungcheol might have expected to see a number of things on returning home.

A pretty boy, perhaps, peacefully asleep on the couch with the TV on standby, his face expressionless but still somehow contented, his lips parted, his hair in his face, and his long eyelashes brushing so lightly against his cheekbones.

An enemy in a suit, possibly, fingering a gun, seated on an armchair with his ankles crossed, waiting for the man of the house to return before he turned a weapon on the child sleeping in his bed.

A police officer, even, weapon at the ready in one hand and silver cuffs in the other, blue uniform disenheartening and the telltale sign of a rat in the organisation gnawing holes in their business.

Choi Seungcheol had returned to the first of such sights too many times to count; Hansol had no sense of how tired he was until he had a blanket over his legs and a pillow under his head and he fell right asleep.

The second one, in turn, he’d seen twice - once when he was young enough to be forgiving, and again when he was older and much more in touch with the concept of _crime and punishment_.

The third one- well, a story for another time, but this particular night, Seungcheol might have preferred it.

Instead, though, Seungcheol arrived at his home to hear a gasped, “Do you want to go upstairs?” that was not directed at him, and in _English_.

It was Hansol, that much was recognisable by the voice, but who would he speak English to? The boy knew that Seungcheol hated the language, it irritated him, and he much preferred Korean, and he doubted that any of the security guards he employed could even speak it, never mind allow themselves to be caught _inside_ the flat.

There was a laugh, one that Seungcheol _didn’t_ recognise, and he had to keep the possessiveness inside him bitten back when a growl building in his chest threatened to make him known to Hansol and the _intruder_.

“How rich _are_ you?”

The voice was unfamiliar, and every one of Seungcheol’s instincts told him to hunt the stranger down, remove him from the apartment.

Hansol made a sound of disinterest, and answered in Korean. “It’s my boyfriend’s place. He has an important job.”

The stranger followed this with a squawk of indignation, but switched to Korean as well. “You have a _boyfriend?_ ”

“We’re not exclusive. That’s why he’s not here right now, he’s probably getting messy with some stripper.”

“You could have mentioned that! What if he comes back? Do you think he’ll get those guys outside to, like, chase me out?”

“I don’t even know those guys,” Hansol answered, voice smooth, even as he lied, “he’s not coming back any time soon, either. He never does.”

“He must be stupid.”

“He is.”

The last words were barely audible, and Seungcheol could picture Hansol’s lips whispering into someone else’s skin. He was a man of great self-control, but he could hear them kiss, and the title slipped away from him just like that.

“Get out,” he snarled, pushing through the kitchen door before he really thought about it.

Hansol was sitting on the counter, shirt half unbuttoned, legs wrapped around the stranger’s waist. The stranger in question was tall and dark-skinned, his hands on Hansol’s hips and one finger slipping under his waistband.

He at least had the decency to pull away immediately, but Hansol gave a needy whine in response.

“Get the fuck out,” Seungcheol repeated, louder this time, and the stranger cowered, ducking away and grabbing his jacket from the island counter in the centre of the kitchen.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t realise, I wouldn’t have-”

“Get. Out.”

The stranger seemed to understand this, darting out of the kitchen, and Seungcheol was still until he heard the elevator close.

He fisted a hand in Hansol’s hair, tugging him down from the counter and forcing his neck to the side.

“The fuck is this?” he barked, free hand going to run light fingers over the lovebites on Hansol’s neck.

Lovebites that _he_ hadn’t left there.

Hansol shoved him away, never one to accept rough treatment when he was in a mood like this, and put a hand over the marks on his neck.

“Why did you do that?” he yelled, and he looked to be blinking back tears. “Aren’t I allowed to enjoy myself just because you’re not here?”

“You’re _mine_ ,” Seungcheol hissed, gripping Hansol’s wrist so hard that the boy whimpered like a kicked puppy. There would be a bruise later, surely. “You belong to me. No one else touches you. Are you too thick to understand that?”

Seungcheol’s head snapped to the side, and his cheek stung, but for a moment it didn’t register in his mind that Hansol, his Hansol, had _dared_ to hit him.

It caught him by surprise, and he had little time to react before Hansol was pushing hard against his chest.

“I’m not some kept whore for you to abuse!” he shouted, though there was more misery in his tone than anger, and Seungcheol felt a flash of guilt.

“Hansol-” he started, but Hansol was out the door before he could even try to apologise.

He stayed put, listening to his footsteps on the staircase, and then the sound of a door slamming and clicking as it locked.

Seungcheol swore loudly, slamming his fist down on the granite top of the counter. The boy was right, to some extent, which only frustrated him further. Hansol wasn’t a prisoner in a tower, he wasn’t a piece of property, despite what the rumours that buzzed through Seungcheol’s employees said.

Hansol was the biggest difference between Seungcheol and his predecessor, the only thing that people couldn’t seem to explain about the newer boss. He was cute, sure, boyishness and mischief carved into his face, but too many people knew that he didn’t quite fit Seungcheol’s preferences, and he appeared so content most days that it was near impossible for him to be one of the man’s whores. The only other reason that Seungcheol took so much time keeping him safe would be that Hansol was a relative - but they acted intimately, and even _he_ wasn’t twisted enough to keep his own cousin or brother as a plaything.

Neither speculation rang too true, of course, but Seungcheol let them talk. Maybe that was why he was so angry now: he’d grown so used to the idea of Hansol as a _pet_ that he was enraged to find that it wasn’t the case.

How could he justify being upset that Hansol spent time with someone else went he spent regular nights with prostitutes and other less-than-favourable company?

That was the easy answer - he couldn’t. He would continue to be unjustifiably pissed, though, until Hansol got drunk enough to sob an apology and Seungcheol couldn’t cling to his anger any longer.

He was still simmering as he drew his phone from his pocket, not hesitating for a moment in dialling the number for one of the security guards downstairs.

“Let Hansol bring a friend up again and it won’t end well for you,” he hissed, in lieu of a greeting.

The man on the other side spluttered his explanation. “He called us - Hansol - he said the guy, the tall one, was one of yours, told us you didn’t want to be disturbed while working but wanted two when you came home, just thought that-”

“Don’t think,” Seungcheol enunciated slowly, “do your fucking job. I don’t have whores at home. Next time I won’t be so forgiving.”

The man stumbled over a string of apologies, promising that there wouldn’t be a next time, it wouldn’t happen again - but Seungcheol was already hanging up.

Another time, he might have made an example of the man, but he was in no mood for bloodshed now, and that would be a third guard gone in less than two months. He always had more to fill in the spots, they were efficient like that, though it didn’t ensure that the others would be anything like pleased that Seungcheol had lashed out again. Too many of them killed and replaced left room for waning loyalty, and Seungcheol was not inclined to deal with that at this point.

He peeled off his jacket, letting it lie on the granite, and finally left the kitchen. Hansol must have been about to start drinking, if he hadn’t _already_ started. It was a bad habit of his, one that Seungcheol hadn’t got around to controlling yet: the boy’s family was prone to alcoholism, but it wasn’t tobacco to stain his teeth or cocaine to fuck up his nose or heroin to leave marks on his skin, so it wasn’t the most pressing addiction that he could have faced.

Hansol was a mess when he was drunk, even more emotional than usual but affectionate and much more willing to be obedient, at least. Seungcheol made his way slowly up the stairs, stopping outside the closed study door and raising a hand to knock on the wood.

“Open the door,” he called, and Hansol sobbed quietly in response. “Hansol-ah, angel, open the door. I’m not angry with you.”

Another choked sound, but no movement, and Seungcheol growled in irritation.

“I said _open the door_ , angel.” His tone was more authoritative this time, less gentle, and it worked.

He heard feet shuffling on the carpet, stopping on the other side of the door. There was a pause, and then the telltale click of the door being unlocked. The handle twisted and the door opened slowly to reveal the boy, face streaked with tears and whole body trembling violently.

“You hit me,” Seungcheol said, voice an octave lower than it had been a moment ago, but not quite in a seductive way.

Hansol stepped back, and Seungcheol stepped forwards.

“Have I ever hit you, Hansol-ah?”

Hansol shook his head wordlessly. It was enough to satisfy him.

“ _Never_. I have _never_ laid a finger on you that you haven’t wanted or deserved.”

Hansol kept shaking his head. Seungcheol willed himself not to cave into the guilt that curled in his gut and in his throat; he did these things for Hansol’s own _good_. No one could be trusted around the boy - especially not strangers.

That was what he told himself, at least, over and over again, reminding himself that what he had done today, and what he would probably do in the future, was not only reasonable but _warranted_. Keeping Hansol isolated was absolutely necessary, even if it happened to calm the flame of possessive jealousy inside Seungcheol as well.

Hansol flinched as Seungcheol reached out to cup his cheek, but didn’t pull away.

“You hurt me, Hansol-ah. Do you know that?”

The boy choked out another sob, and dropped to his knees. “I’m s-sorry, hyung, please, I’m sorry, you were right-”

Hansol continued to babble apologies, but Seungcheol wasn’t paying much attention, simply carding his fingers through the boy’s soft hair.

“Are you afraid of me, angel?”

If Hansol weren’t in one of his episodes, minorly drunk and overly emotional, he would have kissed at Seungcheol’s jawline and murmured _should I be?_ Now, though, he pressed his forehead to Seungcheol’s thigh and whimpered helplessly.

“Not, not, only, hyung, only when-”

Seungcheol’s grip in his hair tightened ever so slightly, eliciting another whimper. “Yes or no, Hansol.”

“Yes, hyung.”

He sighed. He had known the answer, of course he had, but knowing it and hearing Hansol’s snivelling admission were two entirely different things. He wanted to take the boy in his arms, promise that it was okay, that he forgave him: but Hansol wouldn’t _learn_ like that. If he did this again, it could be with someone less harmless than a scared kid looking to make out. It could be one of Seungcheol’s enemies, looking to get to him through his soft spot, or even the police, trying to coax confessions from him.

It was dangerous for Hansol to be so trusting, especially if he was going to leave the protection of the flat every day for school next term, out of Seungcheol’s reach.

“I’m the least of your worries, Hansol-ah.”

“He wasn’t m-mafia,” Hansol murmured weakly, and Seungcheol tugged lightly on his hair.

“What was that?”

His shoulders were still shaking, small frame rattling like a skeleton in a ghost story, and Seungcheol felt a delicate hand on one foot as he struggled to support himself for much longer.

“The b-boy. I asked Mr Kim to look at him. He was c-clean.”

Seungcheol crouched to be eye-level with Hansol, and guided the boy’s hands to his shoulders.

“No more people coming home,” he instructed, and Hansol nodded. “I don’t think I want you going to school this year, either, not until I know you can protect yourself.”

Hansol let out another harsh sob. “P-please, _please_ , hyung, please let me go, I’ll be so good, I won’t be any t-trouble for the rest of the year, please, hyung.”

“No,” Seungcheol said, evenly, “I don’t want people I don’t know touching you. I don’t want them _looking_ at you.”

Hansol was a precious thing - a diamond so valuable that Seungcheol didn’t even wear it when he wanted to impress. He trusted few people to be around him, and even less to actually _talk_ to him. It was a mystery to Seungcheol’s employees and the man wanted to keep it that way: the boy belonged to _him_ , and it was no one else’s concern.

He was perfect, most of the time. Charming and laughing and doting, strong-willed and loud-mouthed and interesting to talk to. But handling Hansol was like handling glass; his mentality was fragile, any instance of violence, light as it was, could trigger an episode, and then Seungcheol would have a mess of a child in his arms, sobbing and hiccupping and grasping at any comfort that he could. What would happen if he fell into the mindset somewhere else? He was vulnerable, impressionable, and avoided conflict at all costs when he was like this. It made him a liability, and Seungcheol refused to take the chance. Neither side of him was for other people’s eyes. Hansol was _his_.

“I’m doing this to keep you safe, angel, not to punish you.”

Hansol shook his head, but Seungcheol knew himself that it was true. No one was safe in his line of work - he killed on the regular, sold worse things than drugs, and without protection Hansol was a pretty face with too many enemies and too little spine.

He pressed a tender kiss to the skin behind Hansol’s ear, and helped him to stand up.

“Let’s get you in a warm bath, yeah?”

Hansol didn’t answer, only allowing himself to be half-carried, half-dragged from the study, across the hall into the bathroom. Seungcheol guided him carefully back to the floor, so that he could reach over to turn on the tap, and then sank down next to him. They sat wordlessly for a while, just listening the running water, until the boy spoke up.

“There’s a bruise on my wrist.” Hansol’s words were barely audible, but he managed to get them all out without stuttering, or breaking into another fit of sobs, which meant that he would be back to normal soon enough.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, angel.”

Hansol wrinkled his nose, and Seungcheol chuckled at the expression. Yes, he was definitely coming down from his episode.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he mumbled, the sound of water filling the bath almost drowning out his words entirely. “It makes me think of that girl you hurt, when we went to that club.”

Seungcheol hummed, recalling the incident. “I shouldn’t have let you see that.”

Hansol slumped against Seungcheol’s side, and the elder curled his arms around his shoulder.

“I’m not really afraid of you,” he promised, resting his head on Seungcheol’s shoulder, “only when I get broken in the head.”

“I know,” Seungcheol breathed, soaking up the affection. “Come on, get up and undressed so I can wash your hair.”

Hansol obeyed tentatively, continuing to unbutton his shirt from when it had been half-done earlier and pulling down his jeans and boxers before stepping out of them and climbing straight into the bath.

Seungcheol stood up to turn the tap off, and knelt behind where Hansol sat in the bath.

“Head back,” he said, already pouring a generous amount of shampoo into his hand.

It was sickeningly domestic, exactly the type of thing that men like Seungcheol didn’t go out of their way to do for people like Hansol, but the boy hummed like a cat purring as the elder massaged his scalp. It was one of the things that calmed him, surrounded in warmth with light hands in his hair: and it was, so far, the most effective way that Seungcheol had found to make sure that he came down completely from his fits.

He looked like an angel, now, completely at peace, eyes closed and lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling evenly. His eyes had fallen shut, and Seungcheol stared at his face. He looked blissful, like he’d reached a state of serenity, and it made the man’s heart lurch, only slightly.

“Hyung?”

Hansol looked up at him, blinking his dark doe eyes, and Seungcheol could only smile in response.

“Tell me you love me?”

“I love you, Hansol-ah.” He wasn’t sure how true it was, how capable he was of loving even someone like Hansol, but as long as the boy wanted to hear it, he would continue to say it.

Hansol sighed in contentment, and let his eyes close again. “I love you too, Cheollie.”

 

 

**iii.**

Seungcheol regretted a very small number of things.

Despite his attorney’s initial insistence of his remorse, he held no guilt for the majority of things that he had done, even when they were rolled off one by one, even when the prosecution brought people in to testify that Seungcheol had taken their ten-year-old from the streets and sold him off, that their teacher of a daughter had been found in an alleyway without a heart or anaesthetic in her blood, that he was a life ruiner and deserved the death penalty.

His trial, and the way that it had gone, was - strangely enough - not one of those things. He didn’t get the death penalty and, if anything, he was glad that he’d hit every branch while he fell from the tree. It would be an insult for them to forget what he had done.

He’d gone out with a bang and a scandal: a mafia boss in a low security prison, with everything he could want on the other end of the gun that he didn’t even need to hold anymore.

No, he didn’t regret too many of his own actions: that was no way to live, after all, but he did regret the odd thing or two.

Not fully appreciating steaming hot food from the takeaway place on the block, for example, was a terrible mistake that he had made before he was incarcerated. He regretted not having that last cup of quality coffee on the morning before he was sentenced: the shit that Wen smuggled in on occasion had taste, at least, but the rest of the time Seungcheol put up with sludge.

Most of all, he regretted not hiring a better lawyer for Choi Hansol.

Kwon fucking Soonyoung was a bumbling idiot, on the good days, but he had impressed Hansol, helped the boy to relax and comprehend the whole situation, so Seungcheol had taken a chance on him, selecting him over his own attorney. It had been a mistake.

For the most part, it appeared to be going well. Kwon kept Seungcheol updated, assured him over and over again that Hansol knew exactly what to do. The boy was going to stand up, plead innocence, and testify against Seungcheol - and Seungcheol, who would have been found guilty beforehand, would give a statement confirming his story. It was never the man’s intention to get out of a sentence: they had been ratted out, and there was no going against the evidence that seemed to stockpile against him. Hansol hadn’t done anything, though; and when Seungcheol got his life sentence, Hansol would be free, with money and the penthouse and all the security that he could need.

Or, that was how it was _supposed_ to go.

Kwon had apparently failed to notice that Hansol had a plan of his own, and on the day of his trial he stood in front of a court and announced that he was guilty of all charges. All of _Seungcheol’s_ charges.

Accessory to murder. Human trafficking. Serial rape. God, so much _worse_.

Words that Seungcheol wished Hansol didn’t even _know_ poured out of him that day: but the boy could do no wrong, so instead Seungcheol rested all of his blame on the singular head of one Kwon Soonyoung. He had never wanted to kill a man more, and he had killed enough people to label himself a mass murderer. Kwon Soonyoung had allowed _Seungcheol’s boy_ to get himself a life sentence, and if it weren’t for Hansol’s meek promises that Kwon couldn’t have known, he would have had the man murdered in his bed the very day that Hansol was convicted.

Kwon seemed to have expected this, because Seungcheol was cuffed to the table as the man walked in.

“Good afternoon, Mr Choi!” he said cheerfully, though his expression wavered visibly when Seungcheol only glared in response. “I have to say, I was very surprised that you wanted to see me. I know we met to discuss Hansol’s defence, but I was certain that you had another-”

“Kim Jonghyun,” Seungcheol said lowly, and Kwon seemed put off by the malice in his tone.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I’m very glad that you-”

“I want to talk about Hansol’s case.”

Kwon stopped, and did somewhat of a double take. “Hansol’s _case_.” He spoke slowly, as if trying to clarify something for a child. “As in, Choi Hansol? The boy who stood up in front of court and pleaded guilty, and asked to be given a life sentence because he felt so remorseful?”

Seungcheol growled in the back of his throat.

“Right, yes, Hansol’s case, of course. What, uh, what exactly about it? As far as I know, it was a clean conviction. After he confessed, well, there’s really no going back on what he said.”

“You sound sure about that.”

“I, he _confessed_ , Mr Choi. In front of a judge and jury and _cameras_. There’s not really much that I can do about that, unless-”

“Unless?” Seungcheol interrupted, but nodded for him to continue.

“Unless, uh, you and he take someone else down. Get Hansol to testify that he was forced to wrongly confess by another gang leader. But, from what I know, and what I’m sure you know about Hansol, it’s not very likely to happen. He doesn’t want to be away from you, Mr Choi, and, no offence, but I don’t expect that _your_ sentence will be overturned too soon.”

And, bumbling idiot though he was, Kwon Soonyoung was _right_. Hansol was little more than a child, and for years Seungcheol had drilled into him the idea that without someone to protect him, he would end up like the whores he saw in the clubs that Seungcheol took him to: abused and alone and another pretty thing to be taken advantage of. He wasn’t going to testify against someone to get away from Seungcheol’s protection; and he didn’t believe it when Seungcheol promised that there would be people to ensure he didn’t get hurt if he got out.

“It’s really not my place-” Kwon started up again.

“It’s really not,” Seungcheol muttered, but the lawyer didn’t seem fazed.

“-but why now? It’s been two years, Mr Choi, and you seem to be doing a fine job of keeping him safe, since I haven’t heard of any mishaps regarding him.”

“Does it matter?” Seungcheol snapped, and Kwon shook his head frantically.

It _did_ matter, of course it did, but it wasn’t as if that was something he was willing to explain. It had been nine years, as of today, since Hansol had gone to live with Seungcheol - and the promise that he had made then was about freedom, but here the boy was, locked up alongside Seungcheol, and the man felt like he owed him something. Some chance to try it again, live a real life, the life that had been promised to him the first time that he laid his trust in Seungcheol.

That, of course, was not what he was going to say, and he instead settled on something entirely different.

“Kim Mingyu - you know about Kim Mingyu, don’t you? - is getting bored of the kid that I got for him. I don’t want Hansol to be next when he looks for something more exciting.”

Kwon seemed to get the idea, because his lips were pressed together so hard that they looked like one thin line across his face.

“Mr Choi, is it not possible that Hansol has something outside the prison that could motivate him to get out? A family member, or a close friend that he had before he was convicted?”

Seungcheol recognised the desperation in Kwon’s tone only because he knew it so well himself.

“There’s nothing,” he said, and the words tasted like poison on his tongue, like he had been the one to condemn the boy.

And hadn’t he?

Kwon sighed, but didn’t appear especially surprised. “I’m afraid, Mr Choi, that there’s not much else that I can-”

“That’s not good enough!”

Seungcheol forgot, momentarily, that his hands were cuffed down, and he lunged at Kwon. He barely reached, but it was all the time that the man needed to scramble away and catch his composure.

“Please,” he said, voice cracking and anger crumbling as well. He sounded pathetic, and if his old employees could see him now, they would snigger at what he had become. Grovelling, willing to fall to his knees and beg a _high street lawyer_. “Please, there has to be something.”

“I promise I’ll look, Mr Choi,” the attorney replied, tone clipped, “but I can’t promise to find anything. I’m working other cases at the moment, but it’s on my priority list.”

The man moved as if to leave, and Seungcheol had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing him out.

“I’ll be in touch, Mr Choi.”

Just like that, Kwon was gone, and Seungcheol dug his nails into his palms. He should have hired a better _fucking_ attorney.

 

~

 

The uniform enveloped him.

Minghao was never particularly short, however he was decidedly thin, all hard edges and sharp angles and bones that looked like they might poke right through his skin. The clothes that he was assigned hung from his wrists, loose enough for him to fit his fist into the excess, and it did admittedly little when he attempted to roll them up.

“Move it along.” The guard’s voice was tired more than it was threatening, and Minghao could understand that, in a sense.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, allowing himself to be pushed along the hallways, ignoring remarks as they were called out to him.

 _Please_ , he had whimpered to his lawyer, _I can’t go to prison_.

He had known even then, as he knew now, that he was less masculine than the other men he would undoubtedly meet here. With slim hips and delicate features, he wasn’t muscular or predatory or dominant in stature.

Such things were pointed out on the walk that seemed to be endless, catcalls ringing in his ears and pointed stares heavy on his lithe frame.

The guard stopped outside a cell, and Minghao got the hint, dragging his feet on the concrete floor as he entered. It was bare and unwelcoming, but somehow Minghao was relieved that he at least got the basic commodities. A set of bunk beds were pressed against one wall, a desk against the other, a toilet and sink crammed into the corner, and there was little go-between space, but it was livable.

“It’s nice, right?”

The voice made Minghao jump about a foot in the air, and he peered to the top bunk, where the man - boy? - who was his cellmate lay stretched across a mattress.

He wondered if he’d heard incorrectly, because _nice_ wasn’t the first word that sprang to mind, but his cellmate continued.

“I thought so too, when I came. There’s so much space! And only two beds, I was so surprised, I thought for sure that they’d cram us all in one hall or something.”

Minghao blinked. His cellmate beamed, and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and jumping down.

“I’m DK,” he said, and the Chinese boy stared at him for a moment.

He was definitely young, not much older than Minghao, so far as he could tell, and more attractive than one might expect for a prisoner that sounded so content to be locked away. There was a boyishness to his face that made it difficult to be afraid, and his smile looked so genuine with the way that his eyes shifted into crescent moons that Minghao wanted to trust him.

Even so, when the boy took a step forward, Minghao took two steps back.

“What’s your name?” he asked, tone brighter than everything else in the dull grey room.

It occurred to Minghao very suddenly that maybe he should have come up with a fake name: maybe his real name would be used against him here, some kind of constant reminder of what he used to be, what he could never-

“The8,” he blurted out, not bothering to separate the words with a pause.

His cellmate, DK, was silent for a whole second before he laughed.

“Oh, that’s really cute! You don’t have to make anything up, you know, your real name will do just fine. If you want a nickname so bad, I can give you one!”

Minghao shifted. “Minghao. It’s, uh, it’s Minghao.”

DK nodded approvingly. “You’re really pretty, Minghao.”

He felt his whole body stiffen just at the comment, and DK must have noticed this, because he immediately got to correcting it.

“No! I don’t mean, _I’m_ not going to do anything, I promise. I was just saying. It’s refreshing. Most of the guys I see are beefcakes or ugly as hell. You’re really gentle-looking.”

“Sounds like a bad thing,” Minghao muttered, eyeing the violet marks on DK’s neck, and the boy’s hand shot up, covering them with a sheepish smile.

“Not always,” he answered, like a promise, but Minghao made no plans to hold him to it.

There was a moment of silence, and DK returned to his bed, hauling himself up to the top bunk and settling into a sitting position on the mattress.

“Do you like to read?” he called, after a few minutes had passed.

Minghao only shrugged in response, but DK took this as a _yes_.

“Here,” he grinned, tossing a book down to his cellmate.

Minghao caught it, a little startled, and stared at the cover. “This is battered.”

DK hummed in agreement. “Well-read, that means. You know a book’s boring if the library copy looks untouched.”

“Interesting principle.”

“True, though. Someone in here loved that book so much it literally fell apart.”

He looked back down at his, fingering the pages. The spine was bent out of shape, a number of pages still dogeared, and the front and back covers were, indeed, wrecked. He had never thought about it that way, as if someone had really read the novel so frequently that the book began to crumble like dust in their hands, rather than just thrown it about, or used it as a doorstop.

It was bizarre, to think that someone in a _prison_ could have adored a book so much; but he supposed that it was also relatively bizarre to have a cellmate spouting philosophies about reading to him.

He imagined Soonyoung grimacing at him, putting a hand on his shoulder. _They’re people too,_ he would have said, if Minghao had ever voiced his concerns to the lawyer, _not every prisoner is illiterate and aggressive._

A loud sound, reminiscent of some mixture between a game buzzer and a high school bell, jolted Minghao from his thoughts, and DK seemed especially pleased as he jumped back down from his bed again.

“That means it’s time for dinner,” he said, helpfully.

“I’m not hungry,” Minghao lied, more than willing to stay put in the safety of his cell and not risk running into any kind of trouble. Eighteen months, maybe less if he got some kind of appeal, and then he would be out. He wasn’t going to ruin his chances by getting himself into messes.

DK wrinkled his nose. “Starvation isn’t good for you. Come on, the food is warm, usually.”

Minghao tugged at his sleeves, self-consciously, but gave no further objection and stuck close to DK’s heels as they walked towards the cafeteria.

He tried his best to ignore those who seemed to recognise him as the _new guy_ , practically clinging to DK in the line, and not letting himself be separated even as his cellmate started to move towards a table.

DK dropped his tray of food onto the surface of the table, and Minghao followed suit, keeping his head bowed and avoiding eye contact with the other two men at the table.

“This is Minghao,” DK said, gesturing to him although there was no need to. He could _feel_ them looking. “He’s, uh, well that’s actually all I know about him, but he’s cute, isn’t he?”

One of the men hummed, a low sound that must have come from the back of his throat, and Minghao chanced a brief glance upwards. It was enough for him to catch the man’s eye, and something so simple felt so _sinister_.

“Woozi,” the man said, instead of anything degrading, and Minghao could have sighed in relief. He tilted his head to the side, signalling towards the person sitting beside him. “Seungkwan.”

Woozi seemed smaller, but there was something about the way that he sat and the way that the other two looked at him that gave Minghao the impression that he was the leader of whatever little group this was.

He ate without comment, listening to Seungkwan and DK talk excitedly, until Seungkwan reached over suddenly and Minghao instinctively moved as far away as he could without falling from his seat.

Woozi raised an eyebrow at him, but Seungkwan didn’t seem to notice, so Minghao didn’t bother explaining himself.

“They’re _monsters_ ,” Seungkwan was saying, running his fingers carefully along the side of DK’s neck, where the violet marks that might have been hickies but could have equally been bruises lay. Seungkwan turned to Woozi, smirking. “Get a bit eager, did we?”

DK blushed, and Woozi only scowled.

“What are you, a vampire? How hard did you even have to _bite_ -”

“That’s enough,” Woozi said, quietly, and it was more than enough to shut Seungkwan up, confirming Minghao’s theory about their hierarchy.

“Did you meet anyone else, yet?” Seungkwan chirped, directing the question at Minghao, awful at hiding how desperately he wanted to change the subject but at least finding an effective way to do it.

Minghao shook his head, and had barely opened his mouth to speak when DK cut in.

“He _just_ got here, Kwannie, like, just before dinner. He only met me. Oh, and Wen, I guess.”

“Wen?” Minghao questioned, settling his gaze back on the food in front of him.

DK waved his hand dismissively. “The guard who walked you in. Hyung has all kinds of _deals_ with him.”

Woozi offered no comment on this, and Minghao didn’t think it was his place to say anything either.

“It’s a pretty small prison, you know,” Seungkwan piped up again, “there’s only like a few hundred inmates. I probably know everyone. I can introduce you from a safe distance, okay?”

Like DK, he accepted Minghao’s shrug in the place of a verbal answer.

“They,” Seungkwan began, pointing with dramatic flair and no hint of discretion to the table nearest to them, “are the most well-known junkies. I’m basically certain that they’re all in for possession or dealing, but they kind of keep to themselves until they need new hits and go grovelling to the big fish.” He pointed to another table, a little further away, and continued, “They’re, like, the kids of the place. Dumb college kids, bonding over their dumb university stunts that got them arrested. It’s a low security place anyway, so they all get crammed in here, and they’re pretty harmless, except for their egos.”

“Horrendous egos,” DK agreed, shovelling a forkful of food into his mouth.

It went on like this for a while, Seungkwan pointing people out and summing their group up in sentences like it was a game in high school: those were the aggressive ones, those were the freaks, those were the people who insisted they were innocent. DK interjected with an occasional comment, usually a joke, and Woozi didn’t say a word. When Seungkwan got to the table in the far corner of the mess hall, the mood changed. It was subtle, but it was there.

“They’re, uh,” Seungkwan paused, as if looking for the right words to explain, “well, we don’t mess with them, okay?”

“Why not?” Minghao asked, even though he _knew_ that he didn’t want to know the answer.

Proving his suspicion right, Seungkwan lowered his gaze nervously, and looked at Woozi for help.

He seemed to get the hint, because he didn’t hesitate in sighing, and continuing where Seungkwan couldn’t finish. “They’re the worst people in here,” he said, tone serious, and Minghao didn’t know how to respond. “They’re killers. Or, S.Coups is. See the one with the short dark hair, sitting furthest away from us, eating right now?” Woozi didn’t wait for Minghao’s nod in confirmation that he saw. “He’s a mass murderer. Some other shit too, but they got him in here for the murder. He’s on a life sentence. He’s killed two of his cellmates since he’s been here, so now they just leave him alone. Removed any trace of a second bed, in case a third guy falls onto the side hard enough to shatter his skull too.”

Minghao shuddered.

“And the tall one, he’s called Mingyu. I don’t know what he did, no one does, but it was enough to get him put in a maximum security place. He met S.Coups at court, because they had their trials the same week, but they hit it off I guess, and Mingyu got transferred here.”

Minghao tried not to notice the tension in DK’s muscles where the man sat next to him, and made some attempt to ignore the way that Seungkwan was holding onto his spoon with white knuckles.

“Why don’t they send him somewhere else?” he muttered, not able to help his wandering over the table in the corner. “If he’s so dangerous, surely they can just put him in another prison?”

Woozi shook his head, lips pursed. “It isn’t that easy. He has a lot of power, even though he’s in here now. He was some mafia boss, I think, before he got arrested. He got ratted out, but he still has all his connections, so he can get everything he wants.”

“They don’t bother us, though!” Seungkwan said, eerily bubbly. “They don’t really bother anyone but each other, after they take tax, unless you seek trouble out on purpose. We live with it.”

Minghao frowned, “Tax? Are we supposed to pay them money? So they don’t _kill_ us?”

DK coughed. “Something, something like that. It’s not really important. Just stay on this side of everything, and you’ll be fine.”

Minghao sensed the wave of discomfort that seemed to have settled over the table, and let the subject drop while they finished their food. It wasn’t until later, when he was lying on the top bunk, that he even thought about it again.

He could hear voices, from the bottom bunk - DK was the first, along with Woozi.

“Hyung,” DK gasped out, and Minghao could imagine what they were doing, “we have to look out for him, _please_ -”

“No.” Woozi’s voice was rough, gravelly, so different and yet somehow similar to the way it had been earlier.

“He’s so little and delicate, you _saw_ him, he _needs_ us. And I thought, since Doctor Hong and you have your little agreement, and there’s all those deals with Wen, maybe you could-”

“I said no, Seokmin. I doubt he’ll even survive when they get their hands on him.”

Minghao felt ill. He lay there, unmoving and unspeaking, until he heard the rustle of clothing, and Woozi’s footsteps disappeared down the hallway.

Even then, he waited a little longer, until he was sure that no one else was around.

“DK?” he whispered, not willing to try out the name that Woozi had used.

 _Seokmin_.

“Yeah?” he grunted. It was scratchy, and Minghao wondered if the muffled sounds he had heard just minutes earlier had been screams in disguise.

“The tax is physical, isn’t it?”

There was no answer. Minghao tried again, words shaking as they left his lips.

“Am I going to be raped?”

He wasn’t aware that he was even crying until his own choked sob broke the silence that DK gave. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t stay here, he could barely even find the Korean words in the back of his mind as he began to curl in on himself, tucking his knees against his chest like a child rocking to protect itself from the storm.

“Please, I have to know, I have to-”

“I’m sorry,” DK said under his breath, in the note of a man who had experienced something terrible, and it was answer enough.

 

~

 

“Dino?”

The cell was dark, and Vernon’s whisper seemed to ring out in the silence.

“Are you awake?”

Chan considered calling back to him. He did, honestly, but Vernon never said anything when he thought Chan was listening. So many of Vernon’s whispered confessions, tearful stories, had been shared when Chan was only lying there, pretending to be asleep, and he knew what to do by now. He kept his breath steady, and waited.

“It’s my birthday,” Vernon said, but there was something in his tone that made him sound terrified of the statement.

Chan thought it over, played it again in his mind, compared it to other stories, and the way that Seungcheol had treated Vernon today.

“I’m eighteen.”

No, Chan thought, that wasn’t true, because Vernon had been sentenced just under two years ago, and no thinking judge would condemn a seventeen-year-old to an adult’s prison. Juvenile detention, maybe, like the places Chan had found himself in when he was younger, but not prison.

He didn’t interrupt, and instead waited for the explanation.

“We made it up, hyung and me, because no one knew my real birthday. He put something different on the papers, I think, but this is the day I remember. Can you believe he found me _ten_ years ago?”

Chan could believe it, but he didn’t say so, and he heard Vernon sigh softly.

“It’s like my surname, I guess. I must’ve had another one, before he found me, right?”

He must have, Chan agreed internally. Neither of them had ever gone into detail about their relationship before they came here, but Chan knew snippets. Vernon had been a kid when Seungcheol found him, been raised as a companion for the man, and known nothing different. It was a twisted kind of story, when Chan really thought about it, but he had long since learnt not to question it.

“I think I had a sister. I don’t really remember, but I know one of the rooms on the hallway was pink. That means a girl, doesn’t it?”

Chan thought so too, and he wondered if Vernon would be here if he had grown up with a sister instead of Seungcheol.

“I could have been a good brother.”

 _You could have,_ Chan almost said, but he kept his mouth shut. He could imagine it; Vernon with a little sister, his arm around her as they walked to school, promising to protect her from anyone that tried to pick on her, helping her with her homework, teasing her.

It felt strange, to think of Vernon as anything other than the boy he was now, but Chan couldn’t help himself. Would he have been naturally clever? Found himself drawn to maths or music or creative writing? Would he have been like Chan was, eager to learn and pushing himself, quiet and studious but consciously more intelligent than everyone around him? Or would he have been slower, taken his time to understand what was being explained to him, had to take a step back for a few days before he could return to the work and finally see the links between the words? Would he have been the boy who never knew the answer but could admit it with a bright smile, the boy with limited vocabulary but so much love to give that it didn’t matter?

Vernon had once admitted in a whisper that he’d never been to school, never had many friends outside of Seungcheol and his associates. There was an element of grief to such a truth, and Chan mourned secretly for whatever boy Vernon could have been if he had never met Seungcheol. Maybe he wouldn’t lower his voice when he was sharing something about himself, maybe he wouldn’t be so afraid when someone reached towards him, maybe he wouldn’t be in a cage meant for criminals.

Chan didn’t realise that he had made a sound until Vernon responded.

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

He grunted, glad that he at least hadn’t been discovered. “It’s fine. Go to sleep, Vernon.”

Silence passed, though it was difficult to tell how much of it. One minute, maybe ten.

“Dino?”

Chan hummed, burying his face in his pillow.

“Will you wish me happy birthday?”

Chan hesitated. Vernon seemed to sense this, because he started up again.

“You don’t, it’s kind of stupid, I-”

“Happy birthday, Hansol-ah.”

He would have been scolded, he knew, if Seungcheol ever heard Chan call Vernon that, but Seungcheol wasn’t here to hear, and Vernon’s soft murmur of _thank you_ made it more than worth it.


	2. jeonghan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i| it’s been two weeks, jeonghan is tired of grieving
> 
> ii| the partial history of yoon jeonghan and various lovers **[content warning: rape]**
> 
> iii| minghao and hansol meet, and what follows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost two months later!!
> 
> I’m sorry that this took me so long, but the good news is that the next chapter shouldn’t take quite as long because exams are over now and summer is in a few weeks
> 
> a few notes that weren’t mentioned in the first chapter because I’m a div:  
> ~ this will mean POV change  
> larger spaces between paragraphs will mean a time skip most of the time  
> I will try to start most graphic scenes with ### but I can’t promise that I will remember every time!
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!!

**i.**

Jeonghan was bored.

Chan saw it coming, as was one of his many talents. He had learnt early in his incarceration that good things never happened when Jeonghan was bored, and had trained himself to recognise the signs before they could escalate into something that the older man would regret.

He saw it first in the man’s hands. He was writing - maybe a letter, maybe a memoir, Chan still didn’t know - but eventually ink-smudged fingers dropped the pen and moved from the paper and tapped irritably at the surface of the table. Next he saw it in the lines of Jeonghan’s body; the way that he sat, legs stretched out in front of him and settled in Chan’s lap rather than crossed beneath the table, posture slanted, jaw tense and eyes half-lidded.

He tried to ignore it, he tried to convince himself that he wouldn’t give into Jeonghan’s tendencies. He knew better. He flicked his gaze between the man and the radio, which was playing some mindless pop song that Chan couldn’t deny was catchy. Another time, he might have kept his attention on the words of the song, allowed himself to pick the lyrics apart, searched for the bass line and labelled the key signature - but Jeonghan was bored, which made him restless, and his agitation bounced off the concrete walls and hit right back at them.

Jeonghan shifted in his seat, tipping his head back in a way that showed his neck and made him appear asleep. This got Mingyu’s attention, apparently, because the beast looked up from where his stare was burning holes in Wonwoo’s head to rest his eyes on the pretty man.

He _was_ pretty, which was probably why S.Coups had wanted him around in the first place. He had the kind of face that made him look nescient and naive, while still managing to be so soft and sweet. He was lovely enough to be an angel, Chan thought, but he reminded himself that Lucifer had been an angel, and Yoon Jeonghan was genius.

Beautiful, but a genius.

He didn’t doubt that S.Coups knew it too, making it all the more curious that Jeonghan had been collected as a pretty possession for the man. Vernon hadn’t been the sharpest knife in the toolbox, so Chan wondered sometimes if S.Coups’ reasoning had been a desire for intellectual company: but one look at their dynamic was more than enough to prove him wrong.

Mingyu, it seemed, did not care quite so much about Jeonghan’s relationship with their leader, and instead focussed all of his attention on the column of Jeonghan’s neck and the irregular bob of his adam’s apple.

If Jeonghan noticed, he made no show of it, but he rarely did not notice. More likely, he was thinking, searching for something to say, considering which stone would cause the most ripples when he dropped it in the water.

He raised his head eventually, meeting Mingyu’s eyes with an unsurprising smirk, but instead of making some crude remark, Jeonghan just stared. The bruises on the beast’s face were blossoming, and Chan could sense Jeonghan’s appreciation. He deserved it, they both knew, and there was a macabre satisfaction in seeing him marked up like this.

The satisfaction, of course, was short lived; it withered and died when Chan turned his attention to Wonwoo. The beast’s black eye, split lip, and bruised cheekbone all corresponded in some way to Wonwoo’s own battle wounds, brands of Mingyu’s frustration. A stretch of violet that looped around the front of Wonwoo’s neck was more than enough to get the idea across, but they all knew that Mingyu seldom stopped at _enough_. A sickening green bruise on Wonwoo’s temple matched the beast’s cheekbone, though it seemed twice the size, and Chan couldn’t help himself from letting his eyes stay for a moment too long on the reopened scar on Wonwoo’s cheek.

“New necklace, Jeon?” was the comment that Jeonghan decided on, and Wonwoo stiffened where he lay.

He was almost entirely frozen: if not for the slight rise and fall of his chest, the frantic movement of his eyes and the occasional adjustment of his head in Mingyu’s lap, Chan might have assumed that was dead too.

Even as he spoke, every part of Wonwoo remained still, other than his lips and throat. “New bracelet, whore?”

The smirk slipped away, replaced in a fraction of a second by a scowl as Jeonghan looked down at his own wrist. The ugly strip of yellow there was without doubt from the brief engagement that Jeonghan had shared with their leader in the instant before Mingyu was knocked down, making it compatible in cause with the violet scarf sitting around Wonwoo’s neck.

Jeonghan opened his mouth, to snap back a response, but Chan cut in before he could.

“Let’s play poker, hyung. We haven’t played in ages.”

Whatever expression had been carved into Jeonghan’s features changed just like that, the man turning to smile sweetly at Chan, as if suddenly pleased to be reminded of the boy’s existence.

“That’s because _you_ have been too busy moping to focus on a game.”

Wonwoo bristled, but gave no comment, so Chan tried to disregard it. Jeonghan pulled a pack of cards from his pocket, which didn’t surprise him enough for him to dignify it with a remark. It was so cliché for prisoners to play cards - he couldn’t name a prison-based movie where it didn’t occur - and although Jeonghan claimed to hate conforming to stereotypes, Chan knew that he adored poker because he knew that he could win.

He had a knack for cheating, after all.

It was an easy way to distract him; Jeonghan’s addiction to _winning_ made it straightforward to direct him away from less than favourable conversation topics, and it was one of the things that Chan played on when he played peacemaker.

He didn’t pay attention as Jeonghan shuffled the deck, nor as he dealt it, but he tried to concentrate on his hand and play properly.

The recreation room was busy, which was hardly unusual, but no one strayed too close to the four of them; Wonwoo and Mingyu taking up an entire couch and Jeonghan and Chan comfortable at the table closest to the radio. Chan attempted to keep his mind on the game, but it wandered without his permission, zoning in on snippets of conversations, latching onto the words that stood out.

The world buzzed around him, and he failed to understand it - how everyone could be so natural not even two weeks after a boy’s death.

“You know, I don’t even miss him,” Jeonghan was saying, when Chan refixed his attention on the man, “he wasn’t that special. I can’t believe that he’s still news.”

Chan blinked, taking a minute to acknowledge the words. Vernon’s death _was_ still news - at least, according to the hosts of whatever radio show was playing. It was a tragedy, one was saying, but was it _really_ , the other argued, he was a criminal, after all.

“I miss him,” he said, before he weighed out the potential reactions to such a statement.

Jeonghan sighed - not unexpected - and the other two gave no indication that they had even heard. “You’re soft,” Jeonghan said, like it explained everything, “you’d miss Wen if he took a three week break.”

“I miss him,” he repeated, surprising even himself with the amount of weight behind the three words.

And it was _true_. Most of the things that Chan said were true, as was his nature, but this was _especially_ true, so true that he could feel it with every breath. He was still coming to terms with it; even two weeks later, he still woke up expecting to find the other boy in his bed; he still left parts of his food untouched in the knowledge that Vernon would have liked to finish it; he still lay in the darkness, breath steady and eyes open, waiting for the whisper.

_Dino?_

Jeonghan had never had such a relationship with the boy, so maybe it was harsh to criticise him for refusing to grieve, but it wouldn’t have taken too much of him to at least keep quiet about his lack of remorse.

“It’s just a distant fact, you know? He died, and everyone’s like, _wow someone died_ , but no one actually misses him.”

“Heartless bitch,” Wonwoo called from where he lay, accompanying it with a humourless laugh.

It was predictable, but Chan wished nonetheless that Wonwoo hadn’t responded. His own closeness with Vernon was a poorly kept secret among the group of them, so it was nothing like uncharacteristic for him to respond to Jeonghan’s taunting.

He suspected that a reaction from Wonwoo was what Jeonghan had been fishing for.

“Get over it, kitten,” Jeonghan said, confirming Chan’s conclusion with four words.

Wonwoo made a sound that could only be described as a growl, and Jeonghan laughed aloud at the sound. This was how they always were, pushing and pushing until one of them snapped but couldn’t do anything about it. Mingyu and Seungcheol hated each other, and never stopped showing it, but they never touched the other’s property: Jeonghan and Wonwoo were the best examples of their truce - even if Vernon had been the worst. Without the intervention of a more powerful force, the two men went at each other’s throats constantly, and it always ended in a way that no one liked, forcing Chan to step in every damn time.

“I think that’s enough,” he said, as steady as he could manage. “Hyung, do you want to play with us?”

Wonwoo huffed. “Jeonghan cheats.”

“He can’t stop thinking about Vernon for long enough to focus on a game,” Jeonghan said in a stage whisper. “I bet it’s a guilty conscience. Maybe he feels bad for letting Mingyu-”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Wonwoo was standing. Chan didn’t know when that had happened, but he was closer than he had been before, fists clenched at his sides, expression dark, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Kitten’s got claws,” Jeonghan gasped, mockingly, and he looked close to squealing with glee when Wonwoo made another low sound in the back of his throat.

If such a sound had been coming, though, it morphed into a shriek of distress when Wonwoo’s hand shot out, wrapping around the slim column of Jeonghan’s exposed neck. It was so quick that Chan almost didn’t see it, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away as Wonwoo slammed Jeonghan into the concrete, holding him up by his neck.

 _Kitten_ was the only word that he managed to choke out, which did little to ease Wonwoo’s anger.

“Easy,” Chan said, the way he might have to a dog back at his childhood home. His hand was on Wonwoo’s shoulder before he even evaluated the consequences, and he couldn’t help himself from saying it again. “Easy.”

This seemed correct, because while Wonwoo didn’t let Jeonghan down, he did loosen his grip enough to allow for breath.

“Shut the fuck up,” he repeated, slowly and carefully, tone lower than anything that Chan had ever heard from him before. “One more word about Hansol and I swear to God I’ll rip your _throat_ out.”

“Easy,” Chan said again, weakly, but this time it had no desirable effect, as if Wonwoo hadn’t even heard it.

Jeonghan shoved him away, in a feeble attempt to regain at least some of his dignity after letting himself be threatened by a stick of a man.

“Freak,” he spat, but there was an unmistakable tremor in his voice.

Wonwoo was nothing to be afraid of - even with his advantage of height, he was skin and bone, mild and silent and sometimes so absorbed in a book that he paid no attention to their leader. In that moment, though, Chan saw a flash of something feral in him, something that must have been left over in their genetic coding from when it was commonplace to lose a loved one every day and natural to destroy any potential threat to them.

“I fucking dare you.”

Wonwoo was no one. Compared to the things that Chan had faced, the people that he had met in the past, including S.Coups and Mingyu, he was less than a person. It was like Vernon’s death had thrown the world off its axis, because Wonwoo was _no one_ , and the threat wasn’t even aimed at him, but Chan felt the words vibrating in his bones.

He wished that he could doubt it.

 

 

**ii.**

Yoon Jeonghan liked to be courted.

It was a pity, really, because his father had always taken him for the _courting_ type, the man to chase what he wanted, never take no for an answer. He might have been the final two things - in fact, it was likely that he was - but the lack of first remained a disappointment.

He was in love with the idea of love, but only in the circumstance in which he was the one being pursued.

It was the books, his older brother teased, ruffling a hand in Jeonghan’s hair and tugging the pages from his hands in heathen-like curiosity. They softened his mind, contorted his masculinity, made him wish for things that men didn’t wish for - jewels and prizes and gifts of favour.

It was the pressure, his sister might have argued, the insistence of everyone around him that even as the youngest Jeonghan step up into the virile role. It reshaped his priorities, pushed at his boundaries, made him into something decorative - not unlike a diamond, so much pressure upon him that he became something else entirely.

In actuality, it was neither. His mother knew, his mother always knew, that some things were simply nature. He was her son, through and through, and his desire to be the passive one in any romantic advances did little to disprove it.

The first example came when he was ten; a boy with a gap-toothed smile, hair pulled into a bun, and a tray of still-warm macarons as he stood outside the door.

“Choi Minki,” the boy said, bowing ninety degrees before Jeonghan’s brother. “May I see Jeonghan?”

They were classmates at the private school, Jeonghan a few months older, Ren twice as energetic. He was enthusiastic where Jeonghan was lethargic, clumsy where Jeonghan was elegant, and more than happy to be the suitor where Jeonghan insisted on being the object of admiration.

Jeonghan had to stop himself from rushing to the door, contain his composure, but he couldn’t help the impossible grin that spread over his face at the sight of the other boy. They were in love, after all.

It was a liquorice kind of love, sweet and bitter and so intense but somehow still hollow; though he didn’t know it, then. At ten years old, all Jeonghan _needed_ to know was that Ren’s laughter filled the room like water, that his smile was bright and his words were sincere, and that the butterflies in his stomach soared higher at every compliment that the boy gave him.

“My father is the head chef at a western restaurant,” he explained, pride evident in his voice as he gestured to the tray of macarons. “He helped me make them. They’re sweet, just like you, so I thought you might like them.”

Jeonghan giggled at the cheesiness of it, and plucked one from the tray.

“They’re strawberry,” he observed, after swallowing it, and Ren beamed.

“It’s your favourite.”

It was, and a part of Jeonghan squealed at the idea that Ren _knew_.

“Thank you,” he said, genuinely. Ren’s eyes twinkled.

Everyone claimed firsts, and Ren was Jeonghan’s first everything. First kiss, first date, first sexual encounter. _First love_.

“We always remember our first loves,” Jeonghan’s grandmother crowed, and the fifteen-year-old had to hold in his scoff.

Memory was not the failing aspect.

Jeonghan would not forget the softness of Ren’s lips against his own; nor the saturated sunlight silhouetting his features when he turned his head to the side, making sure that his mother wasn’t in the kitchen looking out. He would not forget the clamminess of Ren’s palms when he pressed against them; nor the self-satisfaction in his voice when he opened his mouth, ensuring that he recited Jeonghan’s order perfectly. He would not forget the tentativeness of Ren’s nips to the skin of his neck as though there was an underlying fear of causing pain; nor the delicate whispers against his earlobe as Ren’s fingers wandered, groping with apprehension in an attempt to bring pleasure.

Remembering his first sweetheart, his first example of courtship, was not what his grandmother should have been concerned about. Perhaps, instead, how easily Jeonghan replaced him.

 

The last ever example came when he was twenty-two; a man with bleached hair, more money than Jeonghan’s father, and the insatiable desire to please others.

“Lee Minhyuk,” the man smirked, bowing so low that Jeonghan was afraid he might snap. “It’s truly a pleasure.”

It was the perfect match, really. Both of them openly gay - much to their parents’ distaste - both of them dipping too far into scandal; both of them in need of commitments. That was the point of it, Jeonghan supposed. Tying them to each other would keep them from ending up in less than respectable company, because they had each other to stay entertained.

It was smart, in the sense of politics and business, but Jeonghan wouldn’t be convinced by such a minor amount of effort. He expected to be impressed, and there was very little that impressed him about a daddy’s boy with a shiny Rolex watch and no common sense.

Minhyuk managed it, though, burning through stacks of money as he bent to meet Jeonghan’s every whim.

 _Difficult_ was perhaps a harsh word for Jeonghan as partner. He much preferred the term _picky_. _High maintenance_. _Endearingly fussy_. Minhyuk did it nonetheless, never falling short of Jeonghan’s expectations, high though they were.

“You’re up early.”

It hadn’t even taken a year for them to fall into a routine of sorts. Unlike Jeonghan, Minhyuk was the eldest of his siblings and had inherited his father’s company. He left for work every morning, trudging into the office usually before Jeonghan was even awake, and the latter woke up later, working from home for his brother’s company, doing the jobs that his sister didn’t.

Jeonghan smiled, leaning into the peck on his cheek and the stroke to the small of his back.

“Am I?”

Of course he was; he made a habit of getting up early to surprise - well, anyone - when he wanted something from them, and this was no different.

Minhyuk knew this, and instead of answering the question, he chose to comment, “You’d look better if there wasn’t anything under that apron.”

“You’re a scoundrel,” Jeonghan said, flicking water over his shoulder at the man. “But do continue, I’m in the mood to be flattered.”

Minhyuk laughed, pressing gentle kisses to the side of Jeonghan’s neck. “You never cook. What’s the occasion?”

“Occasion?” Jeonghan echoed, attempting his best imitation of innocence. “Maybe I just want to spend a relaxing day at home with my husband-to-be.”

Arms curled around Jeonghan’s front, pulling him closer to Minhyuk’s body, and he smirked to himself.

“I have work,” he said, lowly, and Jeonghan sighed.

“Oh, I suppose you do. Get out, then.”

“If I didn’t go to work, I wouldn’t be able to buy you pretty things.”

“If you didn’t go to work, you’d get to see all the pretty things I’m wearing under the apron.”

“You’re shameless.”

“How unbecoming of me.”

Minhyuk snorted against Jeonghan’s skin. It was a strange sensation, and Jeonghan had to bite his lip to stifle a giggle at the feeling. He didn’t bother hiding the gasp when Minhyuk dropped a hand to squeeze at his ass, though, instead playing it up, making it more theatrical than it had to be.

“What do you really want, my dove?” His breath ghosted over Jeonghan’s ear, making him shudder, and he could feel Minhyuk’s smirk against his neck.

“What makes you think- _oh_.”

It occurred to Jeonghan that he could pull away from the hand between his legs, push Minhyuk to the side and protest that the man not touch him unless he got what he wanted. The more that he thought about it, however, the less that he wanted to: instead letting his head fall back against Minhyuk’s shoulder, lips parted in pleasure as the man palmed at his already half-hard cock through his clothes.

“What was that?”

“I, _Minhyuk_.”

“Yes, my dove?”

Jeonghan moaned. Volume was never a problem for them, as a couple - Jeonghan liked to be loud, and Minhyuk liked to hear him. They really were quite the match, not that either of them would ever admit to it out loud.

“I, _ah_ , I want the jewellery store, where your watches-”

He cut himself off with a needy whine when Minhyuk pulled his hand away.

“M-minnie, please, I-”

“The whole store?” Minhyuk said, gravely serious.

“ _Minnie_.”

“I’ll buy it for you, dove, I’ll-”

“No.”

It might have been the most coherent thing that he’d said all morning, and he felt Minhyuk’s body behind him freeze because of it.

“ _No_ , Minnie, I don’t want to _buy_ it.”

Minhyuk inhaled sharply. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

The thing about having everything one wanted, Jeonghan’s mother had once told him, was that one started to crave experiences rather than material things. Exhilaration couldn’t be bought, but money could do a hell of a lot towards building the initial adrenaline. He had been nineteen when he started such adrenaline, cage-diving off the coast of Australia to see sharks, twenty when he skydived and bungee-jumped, twenty-one when he flew out to Africa with a friend to climb Kilimanjaro.

His newest interest came around the same time that he met Minhyuk, and the older man had no sense of how to deny Jeonghan anything that he wanted. _Criminal activity_ , he called it, tone laced with disapproval and nose wrinkled, but he participated even so.

Over the last six months, they’d successfully robbed two jewellery stores, guns in hand and masks in place. It was all Jeonghan, of course - his plan, his idea, his location. They never took much, they didn’t need it, because it was the thrill of risking being caught that drove Jeonghan, rather than the desire for what was actually in the store.

“It’ll be the last one,” Jeonghan promised in a whisper, though it held no weight. He had said the same thing about the first one, and the second. “Third time’s the charm, Minhyuk, please.”

The warmth at his back disappeared, and Jeonghan whimpered.

“I’ll never ask for anything else.”

Minhyuk laughed aloud. It was another empty vow, they both knew. The very same words had been spoken about the rubies when they’d been in India, the chandelier in New York. _One last pretty thing for my pretty dove,_ Minhyuk had said then, and continued to buy things anyway.

“I can’t, dove, not again, we almost got _caught_.”

Jeonghan held in a huff of frustration. They hadn’t been caught, they had merely _passed by_ a police car. He was still upset over _that?_

“Minnie-”

“I have to go to work.”

His tone was cold, and Jeonghan sniffed, the first of his tears beginning to fall.

Minhyuk looked like he wanted to ignore it, but he seemed to be having difficulty doing so, and he gave in within a matter of minutes, engulfing Jeonghan in a warm embrace.

“Ah, dove, don’t cry. I’ll think about it.”

“I love you,” Jeonghan wailed, wrapping his arms tightly around his partner and holding on for dear life. “P-please, please Minnie, I _love_ you, please.”

Minhyuk combed his fingers through dark hair, littering tender kisses along the back of Jeonghan’s neck. “I know, dove, I know, I love you too. I promise I’ll think about it.”

Jeonghan smirked to himself, the expression hidden against Minhyuk’s chest as the man continued to play with his hair and rub gentle circles into his back. He was soft - it was almost _too_ easy - and his difficulty saying no made him perfect for Jeonghan.

 _Perfect match_ : just as their mothers had cooed.

It took the better part of ten minutes for Minhyuk to peel himself away from his partner; whispering promises that he’d think about it, that he loved Jeonghan, that he wanted to make him happy the whole time.

“I have to go to work,” he said again, like he regretted it.

Jeonghan sniffed, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yah, stop waiting around, the big boss is needed.” He fit a tremor into his voice, and tried not to look smug when Minhyuk picked up on it and looked even guiltier.

He gnawed on his lip, before finally cupping Jeonghan’s cheek and kissing his forehead. “If you really want to, we can do it, alright? This is the last time, I swear.”

“The last time,” Jeonghan echoed, already thinking about the next one.

“I’ll see you when I get home.”

Jeonghan hummed, satisfied. “I love you, Minnie.”

He was backing away, at the door, by the time he called back, “I love you too, dove.”

There wasn’t much that impressed Jeonghan about a man who couldn’t say no to a few tears; but he supposed that in this case he didn’t need to be impressed, only appeased.

**###**

The contrast came in prison, after Minhyuk sold him out in return for immunity; a man with dark hair and eyes darker still, ink painting his skin, euphemistic blood staining his hands.

“Choi Seungcheol,” his cellmate whispered, shaking in horror as he in turn shook Jeonghan’s shoulders. “He’s the _devil_.”

There was no room for _courting_ in such a place, only violence and brutality and everything else that he’d been afraid of before he even arrived.

There was no attempt at romance, no flirting or dating or gentle touches to ease him in: only three of Choi Seungcheol’s fingers forced into his mouth, and the command to _suck_.

When Jeonghan hesitated, Seungcheol pushed them further into his mouth.

“You get them wet, or you’ll get fucked raw, you got that?”

Like a switch had been flipped, he didn’t delay any further, swirling his tongue around the digits, coating them in saliva, closing his eyes in anticipation when Seungcheol removed them. He couldn’t hold in his sob as his uniform was forced open, his underwear ripped from his legs, all three fingers pushed inside him at once. Spit was something, but it certainly wasn’t anything like lubricant, and Jeonghan thought he could feel his skin tearing. There was no coming back from this, no way to wash his hands of it.

He had wanted experiences, and experiences he got.

He fought even though he knew that it was of no use, kicked feebly at Seungcheol’s shoulders, tried to squirm away from his touch.

 _Just go limp_ , his cellmate had advised, smiling like a madman, _just stay still until he’s done and he won’t come back_.

He couldn’t, though. He couldn’t force himself to stay still and _pliant_. He couldn’t find a place inside himself to retreat to. He couldn’t stop crying.

It burned when Choi Seungcheol pushed inside him, merciless and unforgiving. He flipped Jeonghan onto his back, bent his legs and pushed them against his chest.

 _Monster_ , Jeonghan might have said, between sobs and screams and gasps for air, when Seungcheol pulled out, only to slam back inside him to the hilt. _Monster monster monster._

Choi Seungcheol grunted when he came. It reminded Jeonghan of a pig, though he didn’t dare say it. He was too wrecked to move, too defeated to push Seungcheol away when the man leant in to bite at his neck. Whatever pain he might have felt was reduced a dull throb, nothing compared to the tightness in his chest.

“You’re mine,” Seungcheol said, voice gruff, and in the moment Jeonghan didn’t know what it was supposed to mean.

Perhaps it was best that he didn’t know; he had been promised that it would be the second night and no others, after all. Perhaps if he had known, he wouldn’t have tried so hard to pick himself back up.

“So pretty,” Seungcheol said, and if Jeonghan didn’t know any better he would have described it as _tender_. “So pretty.”

Seungcheol left sometime after that, cock tucked back in his pants and uniform zipped back up. Jeonghan just lay there, in too much pain to even curl in on himself and cry. He didn’t sleep, not for a fraction of a second, and instead spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, replaying the scene over and over and over again.

To his credit, Jeonghan didn’t vomit until the morning after, when he was cleaning the evidence of the battle from his body in the showers. Anyone would have found it difficult not to; the dried cum alone was disgusting, and the blood was an added horror. Maybe the people in the prison had become numb to it, learnt to ignore the barbarity of it all, because not one of them stopped to be appalled. They simply looked on, then continued moving, accepting that it was neither their problem nor their place to intervene.

The absolute worst thing, he would tell anyone who asked, was the nauseating blind panic he felt as he was pulled in Choi Seungcheol’s lap at a breakfast table. No one moved to help him, no one spoke up against it; they sank lower in their chairs at the tables furthest away, relieved that it wasn’t them.

The boy to Seungcheol’s left offered a weak objection of _hyung_ , but didn’t follow it up with any kind of argument, and the other two men at the table only stiffened and stared.

“Is this necessary?” the boy to Seungcheol’s left said, brow furrowed, lips curled in distaste.

Seungcheol smirked, and tugged on Jeonghan’s hair. “What? You don’t think he’s pretty? Jeon, isn’t he pretty?”

“Yes, hyung,” Jeon said, not looking up from his breakfast.

“Relax, angel,” Seungcheol murmured, teeth grazing Jeonghan’s ear and one hand finding his thigh. “Be good, and I’ll be good to you, yes?”

“Hyung,” the boy to Seungcheol’s left said, and Seungcheol growled.

“Hansol-ah, whatever you’re about to say, keep it to yourself and eat your breakfast.”

The boy, Hansol, looked like he wanted to speak anyway - but he seemed to think the better of it, and returned his attention to his food.

“Choi Vernon,” Vernon - Hansol? - said later, materialising next to Jeonghan on the exercise yard. If he still had it in him to be surprised, he would have been. “Hyung and I-” he cut himself off, reconsidering whatever he was going to say. “I’m sorry that he took you,” he tried again, quieter, “I would have stopped him, if I knew.”

Jeonghan didn’t know what to say to that, so he let out a barely audible whisper of, “Yoon Jeonghan.”

This was acceptable, it seemed, because Vernon nodded and continued. “The tall one, that’s Kim Mingyu. Hyung won’t tell me what he did, but it was really awful, I think. And Wonwoo - Jeon Wonwoo - is harmless. Mingyu hurts him.”

Jeonghan hummed, hearing Vernon’s words but not really listening.

“Hyung’s a good man,” he said, after something else, and Jeonghan burst into violent laughter.

He had only known Choi Seungcheol for a day, but he knew that his cellmate had been right - the man was the devil.

“Your hyung wouldn’t know goodness if it struck him upside the head and pushed him to his knees.”

Vernon dropped his head, in something like shame or disappointment, and Jeonghan almost felt guilty. Almost.

“You’ll change your mind,” he whispered, as if he was talking to himself. “The grey and the bars and the psychiatrist chats, it makes people go crazy if they’re not already. You’ll change your mind.”

Jeonghan didn’t stop laughing, manic and monstrous and something from a mad house, but maybe he should have, because Vernon was _right_.

Within three months, Jeonghan had convinced himself that he was in love with Seungcheol. It was the only way to stay sane: the man wouldn’t stop raping him if he begged, so maybe it was better to pretend that he wanted it. That he enjoyed it. That Seungcheol loved him.

The more he told himself, the more he believed it - the easier it became to block Seungcheol out when he reminded Jeonghan that he was a whore.

 _I love him_ , Jeonghan might have said, seated between Vernon’s legs on the floor as the boy plaited his hair. His hands stilled for a second that Mingyu and Seungcheol couldn’t have detected, but that still managed to convey his pity. From the other side of the room, Wonwoo looked up from his book and smiled sadly at him.

“I love him too,” Vernon said, loudly, but perhaps all three of them were thinking the same thing.

 _Monster monster monster_.

 

 

**iii.**

The timing of it all seemed inconsistent. Minghao’s trial and conviction had gone by in a blur, the journey on the bus was all too short, and his first day - or, rather, afternoon - had blown by as if it were winged.

Then, to contrast, the night had gone in slow motion. Even when Minghao closed his eyes, willed himself to sleep, he opened them not ten minutes later, trembling in panic and reluctance to let the morning come any faster than it had to.

Instead of allowing himself the mercy of sleep, he stayed awake for most of the night - only slipping into unconsciousness for minutes at a time when his eyelids drooped too low.

When the sun _did_ come back up, it felt surreal. The dawn light filtered through the thin strip of window that sat high on the wall, parallel to the ceiling; but there was no sound. No irritating alarm, no voices from the apartment next door, no gentle humming from Hoshi as he bumbled around the flat as quietly as he could.

Not even a single birdsong.

It was a different world here, he supposed, and he forced himself to sit up on the mattress. He only had to last eighteen months; _eighteen months_. He repeated it in his head like a mantra. Maybe it would be even less, if he could get parole.

It would be okay, he wanted to believe, but really he’d never been so terrified in his life. Fear thrummed in his veins like it belonged there - like he’d die without it, and maybe he would. It was the only thing keeping his heart going, after all. He could feel his whole body shaking with it, from his fingertips to his toes, and he had no idea how to make it stop.

If he reached up a hand, he would be able to touch the concrete ceiling. It wasn’t low enough for him to hit his head, which he supposed was a saving grace.

Even from little, Minghao had never been good in enclosed spaces. He liked to be free to move, free to swing his arms and spin and not be afraid that he’d hit a wall. He wasn’t meant to be caged in, especially not like this. He wasn’t a criminal, he was hardly dangerous, it had been a misunderstanding - he didn’t _belong_ here, he had to get out, he had to _get out_.

“Minghao? Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”

Minghao was _not_ okay, but he nodded, watching as the curiously concerned expression on his cellmate’s face slipped away just like that.

“Well, it’s breakfast soon, and then showers and washing up and stuff, and then you’ll get put on a job.”

The way that DK said shower was careful, like he was frightened of the very word, and it didn’t take Minghao long to figure out why. He hadn’t asked any further about the _tax_ last night, not after DK confirmed that it was physical, but he suspected something about the showers.

It had been a joke, when he was in school: dropping the soap in prison, the hilarity of someone locked behind bars being violated.

Somehow, it wasn’t funny now.

“Will it, will they-”

“I don’t know,” DK admitted in a tiny voice, before he even formed the words, “it was, for me. But for Seungkwan it was later.”

Minghao didn’t know which was worse.

“Just don’t think about it, okay? It’ll be over soon anyway, and then hyung will look after you.”

He didn’t protest, couldn’t find it in himself to announce that he had heard Woozi flat-out refuse to _look after him_ last night, and instead matched DK’s shaky smile with an uncertain one of his own.

“Okay,” he thought he said, but it might have stayed curled up in his tongue.

It occurred to Minghao, eating breakfast next to DK and opposite Seungkwan, how profoundly _positive_ they were. Even when Woozi grumbled about the food quality, called the coffee shit and complained about the jobs they had to do, they had responses for everything.

 _At least it’s warm_ , seemed to be the favourite, for both the food and the coffee, followed by, _keeps everyone busy, though_.

He was content just to listen, until Seungkwan turned to him with a smile that looked all too sweet and seemed sinister for it.

“Are you okay?” he asked, tone far too understanding for someone that Minghao had barely spoken to, and he wondered if DK had already told him about last night.

“Fine, thank you,” he managed through gritted teeth, gripping his spoon so tightly that he wondered if it would snap.

Seungkwan wasn’t oblivious to this, and lowered his gaze as if in apology. “DK told you, then.”

He didn’t need to validate it for the other inmate to know that he was right.

“Good,” Woozi said, entirely unbothered, “now you know. Don’t fight it too much. I had to take DK to get stitches.”

Minghao wished that he could brush it off as a joke. He wished that he could doubt it all for a moment; that they were simply putting on an act, scaring the new guy; that the men that Woozi had told him about yesterday were hardly even dangerous. If there had been any sliver of hope, it was snuffed out like a candle just like that as DK stiffened beside him, hanging his head as if it was instinct.

“Minghao, are you sure that you’re okay? You don’t look very well.”

Stitches. How hard did someone have to be hit to need stitches? He’d seen a girl need them, once; she had been hit in the mouth with a swing at the park and cut her lip open. It had looked like it hurt - there had been so much _blood_. Minghao was beginning to feel sicker by the second.

He didn’t belong here. He didn’t _belong_ here. He had to get out, he had to _get out_ , he had to-

“Kid, you’re shaking.”

Minghao wanted to wake up. He wanted to wake up and be at Hoshi’s place, see the familiar gaudy orange of his living room walls, feel the uncomfortable crick in his neck where he’d slept on the couch at an angle. He would even take the apartment, the sheets smelling like alcohol and too-strong soap, his roommate insisting to their landlord over and over that they just needed another day. He swore that he would never complain again, never, _never_ , he just needed to wake up.

Everything in his _being_ was screaming for him to escape. But he couldn’t, of course he couldn’t. This was a _prison_ , it was designed to prevent escape. This was a prison. Where he was going to stay for eighteen months. Where he was going to be _raped_ by a _gang leader_.

God, he was going to be sick.

DK touched his shoulder. “Hey, you look like you’re-”

“Going to be sick,” Minghao gasped out, cutting off whatever DK had been about to say.

He scrambled to stand up so quickly that he hit his knees on the underside of the table. He held his arm over his mouth as he sprinted in a direction that he hoped would lead to a bathroom.

He managed to stumble through the marked door, though he didn’t make it all the way to a toilet before his legs gave out and his stomach emptied its contents onto the tile in front of him. It was vile, and he hugged his arms around himself as he heaved, though it did little to stop anything. He continued to retch for a minute that felt far too long, even when nothing was coming up, until it stopped and he sat up, spit dribbling from his lips.

“Are you okay?”

Minghao squawked in distress, leaping to his feet. He wished that people would stop asking him that.

“Fine,” he rasped, surprising even himself with how rough his voice sounded. “I’m fine.”

The stranger didn’t look like he could be much older than Minghao was, soft features twisted in what seemed to be apprehension. The uniform labelled him as a prisoner - not that looked old enough to be anything but - and Minghao assumed that he must have been part of the _dumb college kids_ group that Seungkwan had pointed out to him yesterday.

“Okay,” said the boy, quietly. “You’re going to have to tell someone about that.”

He punctuated the word _that_ with a very pointed look at the vomit on the tile, and Minghao scrunched up his face before he realised that it probably wasn’t an acceptable reaction.

More than offense, though, the boy seemed to find amusement in the expression. “I’m serious, you could have a bug. It’s a small place, it’ll travel.”

“It’s not a bug,” he said, considering telling him the truth. If everyone in this place suffered through the same thing, maybe he’d get compassion instead of ridicule.

The boy wrinkled his nose. “Is it _food poisoning?_ That’s even worse, you should talk to the warden, that could-”

“Tax,” Minghao snapped, if only because he didn’t want the boy to keep talking.

The boy’s eyes widened in understanding, and Minghao clenched his jaw. _There’s that compassion._

“Oh,” he said, and for a minute it was all that he said. Then, much softer, “Does it hurt? Do you want me to take you to the infirmary?”

Minghao stared at the boy. The boy stared back, the kind of stare that Minghao felt somewhere in his soul. He shifted his weight on his feet and pulled his eyes away.

“It didn’t happen yet,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Someone just told me about it and it, it’s just set in. In my head.” He laughed bitterly. “Guess my body doesn’t approve.”

“You’ll be okay,” the boy muttered, “it’ll be okay, I promise.”

Minghao hated that word, he thought. _Okay_.

“I promise,” he said again, and something inside Minghao lurched.

He was so young, so trusting - he didn’t even _know_ Minghao, didn’t know whether or not he was a good person, what he had done to get here. It was absurd, the amount of sympathy that he was so willing to give.

As much as he hated to admit it, he would never do the same for a stranger: much less a _criminal_.

Minghao realised with a startling certainty that whatever was going to happen to him had probably happened to the stranger as well, and he felt abruptly guilty.

He didn’t apologise, though, because he doubted that it would make anything any better. Instead, he said in a low voice, “Minghao.”

A ghost of a smile crossed onto the boy’s face. “Vernon.”

 

~

 

“Are you even listening?” Jeonghan asked, waving a hand in front of Hansol’s face.

He blinked. “You have my undivided attention,” he said, not entirely sure what they were talking about, and he looked back down at the sheet in his hands.

Jeonghan frowned, “You’ve been folding the same sheet for five minutes.”

The worry was evident in everything - his face, his voice - and another time, Hansol would have revelled in the fact that Jeonghan cared enough about him to be concerned. Now, though, he was at metaphorical crossroads, and the long-haired man was hardly a trustworthy confidant. No one seemed to know anymore whether he was playing lovesick puppy for Seungcheol’s sake, or whether the grey walls and psychiatrist talks had really driven him to that point.

So Hansol shrugged, and finally finished folding the white cloth in his hands, before picking up a new one. “I like to be thorough.”

He pretended not to notice Wonwoo listening in, from the other end of the bench; pretended not to see the look that Jeonghan gave him, the raised eyebrow in response.

Seungcheol didn’t like Wonwoo. He didn’t hide it well, Hansol thought; he didn’t hide it at all. There were a number of contributing factors that came to mind, when Hansol considered his reasoning, but this was one of the prominent ones.

Wonwoo and Jeonghan’s relationship was, for lack of a better word, _intriguing_. They weren’t friends - they couldn’t speak ten words to each other without the conversation spiralling into cheap and petty verbal attacks, let alone talk for long enough to get along - but they weren’t enemies, either. Even with all the malicious attempts, all the physical encounters, all the times that they ended up on either side of Dino as he pulled them apart: there was some understanding there that made them seem like allies. Unlikely allies, but allies nonetheless, united against a common enemy.

The enemy, of course, being Seungcheol-and-Mingyu. One word.

They communicated in subtleties unless they were fighting - subtleties like a slick movement of the eyes, a slight tilt of the head, a sudden stillness of the fingers. A pointed look, a raised eyebrow. Things that men like Seungcheol and Mingyu were too slow to catch, things that boys like Hansol and Dino were too sheltered to properly decipher.

“You shouldn’t have skipped breakfast,” Jeonghan commented, and Hansol wondered how he could have gotten it from a single raised eyebrow. “Kitten’s not sleeping well either, but at least he ate.” He lowered his voice, even though there was no one who could be listening in. “He’s getting new pills in soon, was it a nightmare?”

Hansol couldn’t bring his mouth to form the word _no_. “I have to ask you something, but you can’t tell hyung.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips, but they were out there now, hanging in the air like poisonous gas.

Jeonghan opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it - somewhat resembling a fish. After a glance over Hansol’s shoulder, to where Wonwoo stood motionless, he seemed to decide what he wanted to say.

“Right,” he said. He could not have sounded less confident in such a word. “Of course. What is it?”

Hansol weighed his options. If he didn’t ask the question now, Jeonghan could get annoyed and tell Seungcheol that he had intended to ask something in secret. If he did, and Jeonghan didn’t like it, Jeonghan could get annoyed and tell Seungcheol everything.

He had nothing to lose, he supposed.

“Did it hurt?” he blurted out, eventually.

Jeonghan grinned, “When I fell from Heaven?”

“When hyung raped you.”

Hansol didn’t know what he expected. A gasp, maybe. A shriek.

Certainly not the strike to his face, followed immediately by, “Oh my _God_.”

He cradled his cheek, too stunned to say anything as Jeonghan fussed over him and apologised.

“Oh, God, Vernon, does it hurt? I’m so sorry, please, _please_ don’t tell Cheol. I didn’t mean to, oh, he’s going to _kill_ me.”

“Shut up,” Wonwoo snapped. “Christ, _calm down_. Hansol won’t say anything.”

“I won’t say anything,” Hansol echoed, unsure of what else he could possibly say to reassure him. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I just, I was just thinking about it. There’s a new guy, I met this morning. He was so _scared_ , he _vomited_ , all over the floor, and, and-”

Jeonghan made a sound in the back of his throat. “This sounds an awful lot like the Dino story.”

 _The Dino story_ , which they hadn’t even talked about since it had occurred, consisted mainly of Hansol getting a new cellmate, with a brain that worked at a hundred miles an hour, who held unmatched fear behind his eyes.

Hansol was soft - and managed to avoid showering for three days to hide the hand-shaped bruises that covered him, after he asked for the boy with a high-functioning mind and a low tolerance for pain to be spared from the tax that Seungcheol was so fond of.

 _But it worked_ , he had said, with an indescribable smile and a self-disgust in his voice, when Wonwoo accused him of using himself as a bartering tool.

“He was so scared,” Hansol repeated, and Jeonghan and Wonwoo looked at each other.

He tried to discern what their silent conversation consisted of, but he didn’t figure anything out, until Jeonghan turned back to him.

“It hurt,” he said, due to or despite Wonwoo’s cold glare. He spoke it like the very admission demeaned him, like he was at fault, like he was ashamed of it.

Hansol supposed, in some twisted way, that such an answer was their permission, their approval, their blessing - if any of those words were appropriate for the circumstance. They wouldn’t stand up for him, especially not against Seungcheol; but they wouldn’t stop him from asking at least.

He supposed that it was all that he could ask for.

 

It was hours later when he finally got chance to ask, and anticipation was radiating from the other two in waves. Hansol didn’t know if they were nervous for him, or simply bored of everything else and curious about the response, but it only served to enhance his anxiety.

“Hyung,” he said, when they were sitting around a table in the rec room, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Wonwoo tense up like he did when Mingyu was about to hit him.

Seungcheol looked up from his cards and raised his eyebrows, a signal for Hansol to go on, before turning his attention back to the game he was playing with Jeonghan.

“There’s a new guy, r-right? A bit taller than me, maybe, I think, colourful hair-”

“Xu Minghao,” he confirmed, without any further description needed, “Chinese, twenty-one, probably a dancer.”

Hansol nodded. That sounded about right. “I was, uh, I was thinking, about, about, maybe you could _not_ take tax from him?”

It wasn’t a question, not really, but with the upwards intonation it was close enough, and the only sound that followed was the rest of the group collectively taking a breath. Jeonghan and Mingyu stopped bickering about whatever against-the-rules stunt Jeonghan had performed in their game, and Dino cut off where he was explaining some kind of movie franchise to Wonwoo.

Jeonghan’s hands froze. Wonwoo’s eye twitched.

No one spoke - as if they couldn’t bear to, lest they break through thin ice - and Hansol wasn’t even sure if all of them were breathing.

For almost a full minute, Seungcheol didn’t say anything. He seemed to revel in the silence, seemed to hold pride in the idea that they were all so afraid of him that they didn’t dare _speak_.

It wasn’t even a minute, but Hansol felt like he had aged days when Seungcheol finally opened his mouth.

“Does he have a disease, Hansol?”

He swallowed around nothing. “No, hyung, but-”

“Ah, you want Mingyu to take him? You want him to be in pain? Has he offended you, Hansol?”

“No, _no_ , hyung, I just-”

“Dino is no longer enough for you, then?”

The impatience in Seungcheol’s tone made Hansol’s stomach churn. He hung his head, eyes fixed on the edge of the table, and chewed on his tongue. He shouldn’t have asked, not in a situation like this: Seungcheol didn’t like to appear weak, especially not in front of Mingyu, and here Hansol was, playing on his _soft spot_ to ask him to do just that. He shouldn’t have even thought about asking, he knew Seungcheol, he should have known.

“Hansol,” Seungcheol said, coolly, and the voice alone was enough to make him want to cry. “Hansol, look at me.”

He obeyed, the rest of his body stationary as he raised his head, not quite managing to lock eyes with the elder. He winced but didn’t move when Seungcheol reached over to cup his cheek, and he didn’t miss the flicker of darkness in Wonwoo’s eyes.

Seungcheol sighed. “Have I ever hit you, Hansol-ah?”

 _Trick question_ , Hansol thought, but would never be so bold as to say aloud. Never, _never_ , was the answer, but such a word didn’t account for bruising or biting, the harsh tugs to his hair or at his pants.

“No, hyung,” he said.

“No,” Seungcheol reiterated, “never. I hate it when you act like this.”

He didn’t specify, but Hansol was sure that everyone at the table knew what he meant nonetheless. Seungcheol liked people to be afraid of him - he _thrived_ on their terror - but his and Hansol’s relationship wasn’t like that. They were something like equals, not quite but close, and Seungcheol had never enjoyed any blatant displays of fear from him.

“Why do you want the Chinese boy?”

_I want to save him from you. He has no one to protect him. He’s afraid of his own shadow._

Hansol swallowed again. “He’s pretty,” he said, voice cracking.

Seungcheol leant back in his chair. “That’s not all.”

He was right, he often was, but when Hansol made no effort to revise the statement, he slammed his hand on the table to get his attention. The sound made all of them flinch - even Mingyu, who had until then been looking entirely unbothered by the conversation - and Hansol pretended not to see the corner of Jeonghan’s lips twitch or the muscle in Wonwoo’s lower jaw jump.

“Why don’t you _talk_ to me? I’m _asking_ you! You tell the others, huh? Everyone knows your secrets but me? Have you forgotten who-”

“He’s pretty,” Hansol whimpered desperately, eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to block the tears that were welling up in his eyes.

Other than the movement of his lips, Hansol stayed completely still, as if the slightest motion could set Seungcheol off further. There were two ways that this could go, really. On the side of optimism, Hansol had interrupted a flow of words that would have otherwise only riled Seungcheol up even more - but on the side of reality, it was unlikely that the man would take kindly to being interrupted by the very person he was upset with.

It was something of a miracle that Hansol seemed feeble to Seungcheol in that moment, enough to act as some sort of reminder of his vulnerability. His expression softened, and he looked like a different man as he relaxed his posture again.

He wasn’t as volatile as Mingyu, nor as intense at his extremes, but Seungcheol was far more capable of slaughtering everyone in the room than Mingyu would ever be, so the unpredictability made him terrifying.

“Yes, fine, you can have him. I’ll get he and Dino to switch cells, alright? But you better _use_ this one, Hansol. I’m not going to keep getting you toys if you’re not going to play with them.”

Hansol did not say _human beings are not toys_. He did not say _you can’t treat people this way_. He bowed his head in submission, and muttered a weak, “Yes, hyung.”

“We’re going to talk about this.”

“Yes, hyung,” said Hansol, although they all knew that it hadn’t been anything like a question.

The chatter picked up again gradually, Jeonghan the first one to deem the conversation officially over and returning to the card game. Hansol tried not to jerk away as he felt Seungcheol’s hand slip down to his thigh, squeezing it.

A warning, a reminder of his place, a promise that something would come in retribution for the conversation today - it was one of them, if not all, and Hansol didn’t know which was worse.

 

~

 

There were too many things in the world that Wonwoo was afraid of.

It was a relatively new thing, the fearing his own shadow and every sound that went bump in the night, but he had taken to it quite well in his time before prison. If anything, it made the movement from the outside world to this place easier: he already knew to be alert at all times, even though it didn’t help him much in the end.

It was the paranoia that drew his attention to approaching footsteps, tonight, and he lay still on his side, marking his place in the library book by dog-earing the page and closing it over. They weren’t Mingyu’s heavy-footed strides: which, on one hand, meant that it couldn’t possibly him - but, on the other, meant that it could be literally anyone else. Hansol’s steps were cautious, and Dino’s were lighter still. Jeonghan would call out if he was _visiting_ , which left three options.

S.Coups - he’d still be smouldering after Hansol’s outburst this afternoon, and there was no doubt that he’d blame Wonwoo for putting the idea in his head. He’d beat Wonwoo around a bit, remind him of his place, but keep it discreet so as not to alert Mingyu to what had happened. When the monster asked, later, Wonwoo would say that he whacked his stomach when getting up from the table, and the monster would be satisfied with this.

Wen - he’d be bringing more sleeping pills, he never came to Wonwoo for anything else, and they had run out a few days ago. He’d ask for something in return for the smuggling, if he’d had a particularly frustrating day, and Wonwoo might not like it but he needed those pills like he needed air.

The idea that it would be a stranger was unlikely, but still possible. A different guard, maybe, or another inmate come to ask about something. It was perhaps the worst of the three, because the others were at least foreseeable.

He had stopped wishing a long time ago for the warden to appear at his cell one day and announce his innocence, and had since then memorised the routine and learnt to appreciate predictability.

Other inmates with indistinguishable footsteps threatened the routine that Wonwoo had worked so hard to perfect.

“Jeon,” said their leader’s voice, and Wonwoo was glad for the lack of surprise.

He needed to get better at recognising Seungcheol’s movement.

He remained still, as if pretending to be asleep would deter the man. It wouldn’t, Wonwoo knew, but it was worth the try anyway.

The footsteps grew louder, and so did the voice when he repeated, “Jeon.”

Wonwoo had barely even rolled over before a hand was fisted in his hair, yanking him upright and out of bed. He made a sound of anguish but didn’t fight back - it was only more trouble than he needed, Seungcheol would always win in the end.

He wheezed as his front hit the metal frame of the bed, and fell to the ground with little resistance, offering no more than a grunt when Seungcheol’s foot pressed down hard against his ribs.

“He’s pretty,” Seungcheol drawled, pressing his foot down harder and making Wonwoo croak out a plea. “You encouraged him, Kitten?”

He knew better than to talk back. When he closed his eyes, he swore he could hear the bones beginning to crack under the pressure.

“You give Mingyu trouble, and now you encourage my boy to give _me_ trouble? You’re on thin ice, Kitten, very thin. We wouldn’t want your brother to have another accident, would we?”

Wonwoo stopped squirming, frozen like a deer in the headlights. His _brother_. He had never forgotten about that, but he had tried to imagine that it wouldn’t happen again - and now here Seungcheol was, making the same threat that he had the first time.

He knew better than to talk back, but now he couldn’t stop himself, apologies and pleas for mercy spilling from his lips like prayers.

“It won’t happen again, never, never again, hyung, I swear, I won’t let it happen again, I _swear_ -”

Seungcheol sneered, “The grovelling is getting old quickly, Jeon. Next time you might not get so far.”

The pressure against his ribs was removed, though, and Wonwoo exhaled shakily.

“It won’t happen again, hyung,” he whispered, but Seungcheol was already halfway out of the cell.

He lay there until the footsteps faded, listening for any kind of pattern - but it was difficult, Seungcheol walked so deliberately that there were no distinct details for Wonwoo to latch onto. He wondered if it was on purpose: he wouldn’t put it past the man to make even his walking pattern as generic as possible.

When Wonwoo was certain that there was no risk of the man returning, he forced himself to his feet and climbed back into bed. He’d look for bruises tomorrow, he promised himself, and although there was no chance of him falling asleep like this, he lay back on his side and picked up his book again.

If he was lucky, he could finish the chapter before Mingyu got back.

He was rarely ever lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter didn’t really turn out the way I wanted, especially in regards to the dialogue, but I spent so much time rewriting different parts of it that I eventually just decided to put this final version up!
> 
> idk it came across as well as I intended, but the inconsistency with seungcheol not leaving wonwoo be is due to mingyu, chan and especially hansol’s ignorance to what’s actually going on with them, if that makes any sense
> 
> ofc this is unbeta’d so if you spot any spelling/grammatical errors feel free to let me know
> 
> as always, thank you for reading, hopefully the next chapter will be up within less than two months!! please comment to tell me what you liked/what you want to see with other chars/what you think could be better!
> 
> -dan xx
> 
> OCTOBER EDIT: I know that it’s been forever without any sign of an update, but I want to assure anyone who’s still interested in reading that I am writing still! I didn’t want to add a chapter as an author’s note to make excuses, so I’m just going to take this down when the next chapter is up, but I promise it is in progress. My motivation to write these past few months has been unfortunately low, but I am getting there! -dan xx


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